I thought about writing something specific, words thematic to turning 27 but the task, like my birthday itself, felt overwhelming. Too much pressure to share something insightful. But here I am today, the first page of 27 and like usual, I am wondering in the same way I always do. This was the best year of my life so far, I am sad to see 26 slip behind me but grateful for all this number has added to my life. I have a house of my own, a dog, enough old airplane tickets to wallpaper my entire living room and a fierce independence that has come from being single for an almost 365 days. Work is simply wonderful. I’m finally saving the sort of money I need for my countryside cottage dream. There are the same old crazy friends that feel like siblings and a family that call me every me night. I am endlessly happy and yet my birthday always make me sad. Vaguely, it feels like an ending, another year gone marked only by another wrinkle on my face. But this is life and life speeds on. Years run through us and shape us. Oh how quick they sprint past and here I am, today, clutching at all my life and how wonderful it is. But I’m melancholy too. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be single forever.
I worry I spend too much time alone, concerned that I perhaps dangerously prefer solitude. Sometimes being in a car with the window rolled down makes me cry , whizzing past with the wind in my face, it’s one of my favourite sensations, so much so, it can make me teary. I still sometimes eat cookies and feel stupidly bad about it. I dip into the self hate jar on the darker days and I hate that I do. Other days, I forget to eat all together, too anxious for substance. Men confuse me. Women intimidate me. I undeniably drink too much coffee, even my dentist told me. Some Sundays I sit and stew in a hazy sadness, an emotion that comes from nowhere but a cloudy, too quiet weekend sky. There are comparisons and blessings forgotten over on instagram. Books I didn’t finish reading because I silently swore them too boring or too wordy. Friends I forgot to call because I was napping. I always seem to forget to call people back. I go to bed too late and wake up too early. I guess I don’t sleep enough. My knees hurt from running because at times I replace a social life with exercise and that makes me both sad and smug at the same time. I wonder if I work too much, puzzled if money should really be my priority.
I talk to Biba on the street as if she were Haleigh or Emma or Sara or Jade or Jenny, because these are girls I miss. Missing friends sends me into a fury, I feel no need to make new ones because I already know the best people on this earth. But then grow concerned that this is very close minded and I am too young to act so elderly. And boys, I miss boys I backed away from, wondering if I made a mistake. I tend to retrace, rethink and analyze myself into a maze. So while I feel accomplished in many ways, infinitely blessed and content in all that my little world contains… I’m still a silly mess. 3 years short of 30 and I’m still wondering, still giving it my best shot, meandering from lost to found and back again, but faithfully and forever happy to have you here with me along the way. I’m happy-sad or maybe sad-happy. As for presents or cake, I’m not particularly interested in those. I can afford to pay for this apartment of mine, Biba is at my feet and there are a wealth of other quiet fulfilled dreams worth more than something gift wrapped. There is nothing I want for my birthday except time. Time to become the woman I know is in me somewhere. I am ambling along, I am looking for her. But enough, for now, today, both me and you, we are alive, we exist. I will let all my doubts and guilts dissolve into this very simple fact. How fucking remarkable it is to have a year behind and another ahead. Happy Birthday to me.